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Maybe I’d always been broken and dark inside.
Be glad of your human heart, Feyre. Pity those who don’t feel anything at all.
I often wondered what it was like to be that free and so settled within yourself.
“I will say this once—and only once,” Rhysand purred, stalking to the map on the wall. “You can be a pawn, be someone’s reward, and spend the rest of your immortal life bowing and scraping and pretending you’re less than him, than Ianthe, than any of us. If you want to pick that road, then fine. A shame, but it’s your choice.”
“It suits you, Amren.” “Everything suits me,” she said,
I would not be weak again. I would not be dependent on anyone else. I would never have to endure the touch of the Attor as it dragged me because I was too helpless to know where and how to hit. Never again.
No one was my master—but I might be master of everything, if I wished. If I dared.
“The issue isn’t whether he loved you, it’s how much. Too much. Love can be a poison.”
The Court of Dreams. The people who knew that there was a price, and one worth paying, for that dream. The bastard-born warriors, the Illyrian half-breed, the monster trapped in a beautiful body, the dreamer born into a court of nightmares … And the huntress with an artist’s soul.
“When you spend so long trapped in darkness, Lucien, you find that the darkness begins to stare back.”
And I realized—I realized how badly I’d been treated before, if my standards had become so low. If the freedom I’d been granted felt like a privilege and not an inherent right.
